Walking along the beach on Sanibel or Marco Island
Where the gentle Gulf of Mexico waves wash ashore
That’s where the shell collectors go
Heads down, scanning for the perfect specimen.
Finding an intact sand dollar so delicate
That is the top prize gleaned at low tide
But no matter how many shells are taken
Still the next wave brings more.
Reading Shelley’s new book last night
I came to a passage that set my thoughts adrift
When the lead character was taken aback
And paused to collect her thoughts.
I thought about all the variations of meaning.
I thought about the shells as thoughts
Collected on the beach like a meditation
Wave upon wave unfurling onto the shore.
I am collecting my own thoughts
Experiencing a new stage of life
When I am free to think about whatever
And do only what interests me.
Collective has the same root
A word with powerful associations.
Knowing Shelley’s world view I expect
This book will hinge on mass struggles.
Where we are staying now there are signs all over
Against a real estate development scheme
Set out on the front lawns with slashed red circles
Over the words “Plum Creeks Plan”
Speculators own 60,000 woodland acres
Where they want to build an entire city.
That’s almost 100 square miles impacted
To turn a profit for the shell corporation.
The opponents want development to follow
The county comprehensive plan.
Their website is taking donations and I think
This is another kind of collection.
It is not my struggle since I am transient here.
I relax in the evening and continue reading
Shelley’s historical fiction about past events
Knowing already how it all turned out.
I am walking the beach of this poem
Picking up the meanings of collecting
And collecting them like shells
Inside shells filled with thoughts.
